


Safety Dance

by fadedink



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Bucky is aware, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Post-Recovery Bucky Barnes, Steve is clueless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedink/pseuds/fadedink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't dance," Steve repeats, blinking rapidly at them in an effort to focus as Sam squeezes in beside Maria and pulls Natasha into his lap.  "I <i>can't</i> dance.  Two left feet."</p><p>"Aw hell, guys, leave him alone," Bucky says as he slips into the booth and presses against Steve's right side.  The booth isn't all <i>that</i> big and there are six of them crammed into it now – and two of them are roughly the size of a small house.  "Steve don't wanna dance, he ain't gotta dance."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety Dance

Steve's not sure why he let them talk him into coming out tonight: them being Natasha, Maria, Sam, Clint, and Bucky. The music's too loud, the club is too crowded (not that he'd been counting, but he was groped four times just walking from their table to the bar), and the back of his throat feels like it's coated with something nasty from the dry ice they keep pumping in at random intervals. And he really _wasn't_ in the mood to watch Bucky grinding away between Maria and Natasha. Or Natasha and Clint. Or, fuck, _Sam_ and Clint.

So he sits at their booth and orders the shots that Bucky suggested (before he'd headed to the dance floor with the rest of the group). Not that anyone comes to claim them, so Steve is left there with eighteen shots, three beers, and two whiskey sours that the others had requested.

Two songs later, he's still by himself (though not really, because it's not like people don't know who he is, so more than one person has stopped to say hello and ask for pictures), and fuck it, he's not going to let good alcohol go to waste. So he starts on the shots.

By the time he's plowed through fifteen of them (and dear God, _why_ had he thought ordering three rounds of tequila shots had been a good idea, oh that's _right_ , because Bucky had said, "hey, Steve, get a round of tequila shots, hell, get _three_ rounds"), he's had enough that he's not drunk, but he's feeling it. The lights are just that much brighter and there's a hazy glow around them that he's pretty sure is _not_ because of the dry ice fog.

"Come on, Steve, come dance with us!"

Red hair fills his vision and an insistent hand tugs on his wrist. Steve just smiles and gently untangles himself and shakes his head. "I don't dance."

"Buy the man another round," Clint suggests as he drops into the booth and presses against Steve's left side, hot and sweaty with flushed cheeks and a wide grin. "Get him drunk enough and I bet he will."

"I already drank all the rounds because you guys were too busy," Steve points out.

"Aw, Cap, didja miss us?" Clint asks as he presses a sloppy kiss to Steve's cheek that Steve wastes no time wiping off. "Shoulda told me you were lonely, I'd've kept you company."

"Get off," Steve laughs and puts one hand in Clint's face to push him away.

But Clint just scoots closer until he's practically in Steve's lap. "No, no, you need another round. Or two."

"I like this plan," and Maria's crowding in on Clint's other side, one hand waving wildly in hopes of attracting a passing server.

"I don't dance," Steve repeats, blinking rapidly at them in an effort to focus as Sam squeezes in beside Maria and pulls Natasha into his lap. "I _can't_ dance. Two left feet."

"Aw hell, guys, leave him alone," Bucky says as he slips into the booth and presses against Steve's right side. The booth isn't all _that_ big and there are six of them crammed into it now – and two of them are roughly the size of a small house. "Steve don't wanna dance, he ain't gotta dance."

The words draw Steve out of his contemplation of whether or not the booth is structurally sound enough to hold all of them, and he flashes Bucky a quick smile. "Thanks."

"Hey, don't thank me," Bucky says loud enough to be heard over the throbbing bass line of whatever song is currently playing. "Just reminding the peanut gallery that they can't _make_ you do anything."

"I bet I can make him scream like a twelve year old girl," Clint says roughly two seconds before his fingers dig into Steve's lower ribs. And the yelp that escapes Steve's lips sound _exactly_ like a twelve year old girl at Justin Bieber concert (a fact that both Natasha and Maria _and_ Pepper have pointed out more than once).

Bucky, because he's the worst best friend ever, laughs and leans forward far enough to fist bump Clint. "I like you," he says. "I'm keeping you."

"Hear that, Tasha," Clint crows, batting at her arm. "I'm gonna be a kept man."

"Your dream come true," she replies, smacking his hand as it approaches again. "Is James aware of your infatuation with cold pizza?"

"Hey, cold pizza is pretty fucking awesome," Bucky says before Clint can, and they fist bump again. "At least it's not borscht."

Natasha flashes a mock glare at him, but Bucky just grins wide at her before crossing his eyes. Everyone laughs, and Steve thinks that maybe coming out with them wasn't such a bad idea after all. 

Once again, he's amazed at just how far Bucky has come in the last eighteen months. He's healthy, the hard lines and angles of his body a little softer now that he has access to good food. His eyes are clear, the dark circles beneath them vanished, and he's sleeping through the night more often than not. (Steve knows this because his own insomnia guarantees he's awake into the wee hours of each morning.)

The biggest difference, though, is that Bucky is _happy_.

He smiles now, and cracks jokes like he did before (before the War, before the Serum, before Zola and Hydra and the Winter Soldier), and laughs. He isn't afraid to unleash the side of himself that revels in practical jokes and prank wars and Nerf guns and water pistols. He's found himself and settled into his skin, and Steve could easily spend the rest of his life watching Bucky explore this century.

"Hey, hey, let's get Taco Bell when we leave here," Bucky suggests over Clint's delighted chortle and emphatic "fuck yeah!" Running his hands through his hair, Bucky shakes his head, grins, and gets to his feet in a single motion that shouldn't be nearly as graceful as it is. "But now I wanna dance some more."

He slants a glance at Steve and his grin shifts a few degrees. There's something there... Something that Steve can't pinpoint, but it makes his face hot and his skin tingle as his breath catches in his throat.

Then Bucky nimbly plucks the last shot glass from Steve's fingers and his throat works as he tips his head and tosses it back. Steve finds himself staring.

He licks his lips and Steve stares some more because Jesus wept, Bucky is _beautiful_. Dark hair straggled loose from his pony tail and stuck to damp skin, eyes bright and glittering in the flashing lights, the storm sky blue of them made more intense by the dark eyeliner smudged along the lids, and his mouth...

His mouth is red and wet and shiny and bruised and Steve wants to bite it.

But he settles for staring. Even when Bucky looks at him with knowing eyes. And reaches over to snag Clint's beer and take a long swallow over Clint's " _hey_!" before handing it back. Then those amazing eyes flick towards the other four before coming back to Steve, and Bucky smiles, slow and evil.

"I'd ask _you_ , but..." he trails off, then addresses the group. "Guys, look at it this way, now you gotta story to tell your grandkids. You were there the night that Captain fucking America finally backed down from a challenge."

With that shot, Bucky casts another look at Steve and slips through the crowd, back to the dance floor. And Steve just sits there, mouth hanging open in disbelief, while the others make assorted "ooh" and "ahh" and "oh _shit_ " noises. "Did he just...?"

"Oh yeah, he did," Sam points out, not at all helpfully, and just grins when Steve looks at him. Though Steve supposes he'd be grinning too if Natasha was sitting in his lap and Maria was doing...well, whatever it is she's doing, but still. Not the point.

"Steve," Clint says, and pats his shoulder with clumsy motions. "Steve. Listen. Your boy. Steve, listen."

"Clint, you're drunk," Natasha says.

"No, stop, listen, Steve," Clint says, and Steve drags his eyes from the dance floor to focus on Clint. "Bucky. Your boy. _Your_ boy. Just. He's out there," and this is accompanied by a hand flung towards the center of the club, "so why're you here?"

"I..."

"You," Clint says in all his buzzed, philosophical glory (because Steve has noticed that both whiskey sours are gone now and the empty glasses are in front of Clint). "You, you, _you_. This isn't about you. Issabout him. And you."

"I can't dance," Steve repeats, but his eyes shift back to the floor, and it's like some cosmic being somewhere heard him. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and there he is. Bucky, all long limbs and lean muscles and black leather pants and unbuttoned shirt, hands over his head as he spins and sways and lets the other dancers move him. Each movement is fluid and beautiful, combining into a lethal ballet, and it's clear that he didn't need the alcohol to lose his inhibitions.

And he's staring at Steve. And while Steve watches, Bucky licks his lips again and jerks his head.

There's a collective sigh of "holy _fuck_ ," but Steve ignores it. He can feel his blood throbbing in his veins as he slides from the booth and stalks across the floor.

"You're an asshole," he says when he's close enough to slip into Bucky's personal space.

Bucky grins. "Yup," he says, and Steve can hear the pop of the 'p'. "Worked though."

"You've known me my whole life. You _know_ I can't dance."

Bucky's metal arm drapes over his shoulder as Steve's thigh pushes between his and their hips slot together and Bucky tips his chin up with that familiar smirk. Steve doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he lets them settle on Bucky's hips, fingertips finding warm skin beneath the open shirt. "Liar, liar, pants on fire," Bucky breathes into the air against Steve's lips. "I've _seen_ you fight."

Steve wants to ask what that's supposed to mean, but Bucky starts to move.

"Just relax," he says, resting his forehead against Steve's, "and go with the music."

So Steve does. His body moves with Bucky's like they share the same brain, the same muscles. It's exhilarating and freeing and glorious and so fucking filthy that Steve can feel his dick swelling behind his zipper. He thinks about pulling back, putting a little distance between them, but then Bucky looks up at him through sooty lashes, and he laughs.

And that laugh sends all the remaining blood in Steve's body scrambling south with a quickness that leaves him dry mouthed and light-headed.

"You like it," is all Bucky says. He rotates his hips against Steve's, and that's when Steve feels it. Bucky's hard, too, and _oh_. "Wondered when you were gonna get with the fucking program, Rogers."

"I got your fucking program," Steve growls, fingers grasping tighter. He has to be leaving bruises, but Bucky laughs again. That's all it takes to get Steve to lunge forward and _take_.

The kiss is hot and wet and so far beyond dirty that Steve doesn't have words for it. It's lips and tongues and teeth, and he finally gets to bite Bucky's bottom lip mere seconds before Bucky sucks on his tongue. 

When he grabs a handful of dark, silky hair, Bucky groans low in his chest and rocks their hips together.

Yeah, Steve's with the fucking program, all right.

He catches Bucky's free hand, laces their fingers together, and pulls. Pulls Bucky out of the crowd, off the dance floor, past the booth that still houses the other four. Who are sitting there staring at them with their mouths hanging open. When Steve stalks past then without even stopping, Sam starts clapping, Clint whistles, and Maria and Natasha cheer. Loudly.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Clint calls.

"Gives us a lot of options," Bucky calls back, laughing in clear delight when Steve's fingers tighten on his hand. "Don't wait up, kids!"

"Is this what you call doing your patriotic duty?" Maria yells, and there are more whistles now from everyone around them.

"Damn straight," Bucky answers before Steve drags him past the bar and towards the door. "God bless America!"

**Author's Note:**

> So. No clue where this came from, but I had fun writing it, so there's that. Kudos to Brenda for the beta and title. :)


End file.
